


Temperate Zone

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Consensual Sex, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Introspection, M/M, Sex, Shower Sex, Showers, Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 08:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8742952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: Wash hates the showerhead in the corner, the one with an equal chance of scalding hot or freezing cold water. Good thing Maine is a furnace and likes helping him unwind.





	

Wash knows that that particular grunt means he needs to move up or risk getting squashed into the corner of the shower, right below the shower head that runs either icy cold or scalding hot, enough to leave his skin pink and itchy. There’s no in-between. He has wondered, idly, if the reactions of the others to it tell him something about where they came from originally. They’re not supposed to even speculate, let alone tell, but come on, he’s never met anyone who can gossip like a soldier, so speculation runs rampant.

He shifts over, taking the shower in the middle. The spray isn’t as strong but it’s less likely to dump a deluge of ball-shrinkingly ice-water on his head and he thinks that’s a small price to pay. The twins, for some reason, will happily drench themselves in cold water, not caring if it leaves them gasping for breath. York on the other hand, drags any tap as hot as he can get it until Wash is pretty sure that his skin should peel off. Maybe working locks has left his nerves dead to anything but electricity. It doesn’t mean anything. But Wash came from a comfortably temperate colony. Temperate in climate, temperate in politics, temperate in people. 

He wrenches the shower on and douses his head beneath the tepid spray.

Next to him, Maine drags his hand over his shaved head. He must have clippers. Wash knows his own hair has long since grown out of the regulation cut, but the Director doesn’t seem to give a fuck about hair styles, or half of the Freelancers would have been pulled up on regulations by now.

The bustle of noise from the locker room has subsided by now. Downtime is a precious commodity and no-one likes to squander it, although no-one really talks about what they do with it. Another secret piled on top of the rest, and one place where Wash avoids speculating. It feels intrusive when their privacy is already all but nonexistent. For himself, he writes letters home that he’ll never send, looks up synopses of books he’ll never read, watches films that he won’t remember the next day.

So he stands beneath his shower head, hands against the wall and glances at Maine. “Hey,” he says, “want to fuck?”

“Subtle,” Maine says along with an exhale that’s a laugh if you know him, and a threat if you don’t.

Wash shrugs and flashes a grin. “They didn’t hire me for my subtlety.” They hired him for broken glass and clean shots and the stubborn refusal to lie down and take it. Or maybe in spite of that. He’s still not sure. Definitely not subtlety though.

Temperate just isn’t his style.

Isn’t Maine’s either. His hand closes around Wash’s wrist, drags him beneath the spray of Maine’s shower. Ice pounds down against him. He gasps, too shocked even to make a noise and stunned still even when Maine presses against his back and Wash can feel his hips, the planes of his stomach, his cock, rub against him.

Maine runs hot, like if Wash could just open up his chest, peel aside flesh and ribs and sinew, he’d find a furnace there where his heart should be. He’s scalding against Wash’s back and he barely noticed when the falling water warms. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Wash says.

There’s a rumble against his neck, breath as hot as the rest of Maine brushing against the nape, and then a hand between his legs. If the water had made his balls all but vanish, Maine’s hand does a great job of bringing them back, the return of blood like lava. Wash hums his appreciation and braces himself against the wall, fingers splayed against the pristine tile of the wall. Maine’s not vocal during sex. Or at all. Suits Wash fine. He’s not either, no matter what gossip would speculate. Dirty talk does nothing for him, but the flex of muscles, a large hand ‘round his dick, the press of heat between his legs… yeah, that does it.

Maine’s cock is as impressive as the rest of him. Wash has had more than ample time to check that, and he feels it now sliding between his thighs, nudging his balls. Wash presses his legs firm together and is rewarded with Maine’s groan of pleasure and the buck of his hips. It’s a little awkward, forces Wash onto his toes and Maine to stoop, but who the fuck cares when it feels this good?

He rocks back, keeps tight hold of Maine’s dick between his thighs. Maine’s teeth graze his neck and then his free hand curls against Wash’s thigh, holds him still, a brand of burning iron, to match the one round Wash’s cock. Like he wants to leave his palm print on Wash’s skin in scorched flesh. 

Maine’s cock slides between Wash’s leg, slick with the water which might be hot, might be cold, Wash doesn’t know when Maine’s thumb rubs against the tip of his dick, Leaves sparks which burrow beneath his skin. The room’s a sauna, burning coals and suffocating steam. Wash fucks Maine’s hand. Maine fucks his thighs, the sound the crash of waves on an icy shore. He thinks he leaves cracks where his fingers pass, skin splitting between heat and cold to crumble away and leave him scoured clean. 

It rises inside him, bubbling heat, and fuck, it’s been too long, fuck, fuck, too much, boiling him alive, seeking an outlet, a hot spot to break the mantle and then…

It floods between his legs. Him, he thinks. And Maine. Both of them in climax and Maine’s weight draping over him, scorching and suffocating and blanketing him, sharing heat until he can breathe again. 

The water’s already sluiced away the evidence from his thighs and Maine’s pruned fingers, but the heat lingers in heavy limbs and soft cocks. Wash lets out a contented sigh and ducks his head against the tiles again. Maine goes with him, cock still joined between them.

“Mmmm good,” Wash mumbles intelligently. Needn’t have worried. Maine just grunts his agreement and slowly ebbs away, although Wash can still feel him. Hasn’t quenched the furnace any. It’s addictive.

And Temperate had never been his style.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [all that counts is here and now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10450164) by [vanishedSchism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishedSchism/pseuds/vanishedSchism)




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